


The Great Cuddles Of Burma

by fortheloveofparliment (ariane221b)



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Burma, Episode Centric, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Polyamory, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, They're all dumb and I love them, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1674128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariane221b/pseuds/fortheloveofparliment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They came together in Burma, in beds with the lights down low and covers pulled up. Its trust, and warmth, and maybe love. Who knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Cuddles Of Burma

**Author's Note:**

> So I originally posted this on the TopGearSlash Live Journal page. It's taken me a while to write, but I'm very out of practice. In hindsight, there is a lot more stuff I want to go into detail on, but I'm happy as it is for now. Enjoy.

1.

There had been such a note of sincerity in his voice when Hammond had said that the room was “alright”, that James had actually believed him for a second. Clarkson, being the older and therefore most definitely the wiser one (apparently) had ignored both of them to barge past and graciously pronounce the room to be ‘awful’. James thought that was rather tactful of him; he didn’t even swear.

The three of them hauled their heavy bags and aching bodies up into the tiny loft, and after politely telling the crew to fuck off, began attempting to settle in for the night. Technically, there was a grand total of two beds, one of which didn’t possess a mattress and the other didn’t possess any blankets. “The producers are getting their own back for all the shit we say, aren’t they?” said Hammond.

“Yes.” Said James, and threw himself down on the bed with the mattress. “Ow.”

Jeremy dropped his bag on top of him. “Move, oh man of many words. You’re not getting the only good bed.”

“Neither are you. Go get the other bed.  At least you’ll be warm.”

“Not to interrupt the couples tiff, chaps, but where exactly am I meant to sleep?” Hammond, looking ready to drop dead, bless him, interrupted.

“Floor.” The other two replied.

This suggestion didn’t go down very well, and after a while of “My lorry has the worst ride”, and “My knee doesn’t work”, or simply “I’m old”, someone either very stupid or very brave put forward the idea that they attempt to share sleeping space.

“We’ve done it before in the caravan, it wasn’t that bad.”

“It will be if you kick me in your sleep.” Grumbled Jeremy, but he set about shifting blankets about and rummaging in bags, and before too long there three of them were in Mattress Bed, with a carefully measured inch of space between each of them, lying perfectly still and totally not sleeping.

“This is stupid.” Declared Richard. “We’re not going to get any sleep, lying like boards and then we’ll just end up pissed off with each other all day tomorrow.”

“So what do you propose as an alternative?” May, not wanting to be the one to voice this thought aloud.

Richard did not answer, at least not verbally. He took James’s hand, and pulled it over his own hip while rolling towards Jeremy to use him as a pillow. “Come on. Much comfier.”

Jeremy harrumphed. “Speak for yourself.”

It took a bit of shuffling, but eventually they got themselves settled; James spooning around Richard, who had his head tucked into Jeremy’s neck, who managed to get his gorilla arms around most of the other two. “I have to admit, it is at least warmer.” Muttered James, already on the edge of sleep.

“Mmm,” Said Jeremy, in a similar state. “But I still hate both of you.”

 

 2.

“Look, I’m pretty sure he’s going to be fine. He knows what he’s doing, and it’s not like he hasn’t had worse.” James should have known not to bring that up, but it was too late now. After Hammond’s Big Crash was the only time in recorded history that the words ‘Jeremy’ and ‘distraught’ had been used in the same sentence.

It didn’t help particularly now, and only served to make Jeremy slump further down into his chair, and stare down into his beer. “I know he’ll be fine,” he said finally. “I’m just... I dunno… worried or something.”

“Yeah, well you are meant to worry about your mates when they fall off horses, y’know. Even if the horse in question is tiny.” The both cracked a slight smile at that, but James left it up to Jeremy to make the height-ist comment. He thought it might cheer him up a bit. “Anyway,” he continued, “at least it wasn’t one of us. We’re so old we’d have crumbled into dust when we hit the floor.”

Jeremy smiled sadly into the sunset. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Shut up, May.”

Slowly, they watched the sun dip down below the horizon, as they finished off their beers.

“He will still be able to drive won’t he?” Jeremy was back to worrying again.

“Yes, I should think so. Last message from the hospital was that it was just a sprain, so he’ll be able to carry on after he’s had it taped up.” James looked over at Clarkson. He wasn’t sure which was more disturbing – watching Hammond come of his pony, or see a display of negative emotion from Jeremy that was anything other than unbridled anger. Going out on a bit of a limb, he reached out at took Jeremy’s hand, squeezing his fingers gently. When Jeremy squeezed back, he left his hand there, and went back to the tail end of the Burmese sun set. It was gorgeous, casting a brilliant orange light over the green valley, and he wished he could give it his full attention. But the two morons were taking up far too much room inside his head.

Jeremy’s voice was very small when he spoke now; “May?”

“Yes?”

“Listen carefully, because scout’s honour you will never hear these words pass my lips again. But, I’d rather not be on my own tonight.”

James nodded. He felt the same, but he wasn’t going to admit to that. “Your place or mine, then?”

“Well considering your place is a crane and a poor excuse for a tent, mine.”

“Oh yes, the back end of a tipper truck. Much more romantic, I’m sure.”

“Piss off, May.” 

There wasn’t any hesitancy in being close to each other this time, although it felt rather odd without an extra body curled up between them. Jeremy spooned up around James, holding onto his shorter, stockier body.

There was a chill in the air, but the shared body heat and Jeremy’s weirdly fancy duvet kept them warm. One, or both, or neither of them thought they should bring up the point that this was a slightly odd thing for two mates to do, especially as it now served no practical purpose, but this point was cast aside.

“Mmph,” Jeremy inhaled some of James’s hair. “Won’t the crew think this is a bit strange when they come down in the morning?”

James yawned. “Nah. We’ll rig up something suitably comedic before they get here.”

“Hmm. Night, May.”

“Night, Clarkson.”

For a second, Jeremy’s lips ghosted over the back of James’s neck. He squeezed Jeremy’s hand in return and together they fell into a deep sleep, safe in the knowledge that Hammond would bully them silly if he saw them now.

 

3.

“James. James. James. Jaaaaaammmmeeessss. Psst! PSST! Yes. Yes, no, come on. We’re over here!”

“Jeremy, stop trying to be subtle. It’s not working.” Richard kicked out at Jeremy, missed, and rolled onto his back, giggling to himself. He wiggled back up again, as Jeremy eyed him up.

“Shut up you mad idiot. Give me the electric soup.” Jeremy snatched a large, clear bottle out of Richard’s hand before it spilt everywhere, and took a swig.

“Electric soup is beer, you prick. That’s ruddy gin.”

“Hmm. I wondered why it tasted like trees.” Jeremy eyes the bottle, and drank again.

From somewhere in the darkness, James appeared, a little unsteady on his feet. He sat down on the dusty ground between his two laboriously drunk co-presenters, and relieved Jeremy of the bottle. “Why are you two sat under a lorry drinking gin?”

“It’s not gin, Jaaaaaames. It’s electric soup. And we’re under a lorry because Hammond kissed-”

“Kicked.”

“-Kicked a Cornel and now he wants us dead.” Jeremy nodded, more to himself than anyone else.

“Right. You know electric soup is made from milk, don’t you?” James suspected that neither of them knew this, because they both tried to kick him, overbalanced, and rolled onto their backs. Feeling old, he wondered if there was a glass anywhere he could put the gin in.

Usually, none of them drank gin. However in these circumstances, with about five taste buds left between them, he wasn’t feeling particularly fussy. They sat under Richard’s lorry, passing the bottle between them like teenagers behind a bike shed, and bickered aimlessly amongst themselves. They watched the  people outside, milling about, dancing, eating. The bottle slowly emptied itself, and Jeremy’s hand found its way onto the small of Richard’s back, and James’s hand found its way onto Jeremy’s thigh.

They leant into each other, carefully turning off things like ‘better judgement’, and ‘rational thought’, and switching on things like ‘instinct’, and ‘I’m drunk and my co-presenters are really cute especially in this lighting’.

Gingerly they crawled out from underneath the lorry, and made their way up into the small, dark space of Richard’s current living room. They didn’t bother with torches, but instead carried on with hands sliding under shirts and mouths breathing onto necks and finally kisses, which tasted of gin, crap beer, and paprika.  They settled in together on Richard’s bed, Jeremy in the middle this time. Richard – ever the eager one - crawled up on top of him, so he could reach James as well.

They stayed like that for a while, trading kisses and touches, and rather drunken giggles. With the sound track of about half the crew throwing up in some bushes, Richard eventually settled into Jeremy’s side, and began snoring softly.

James wrapped one arm over Jeremy’s soft belly, watching Richard’s face. “He never could hold his booze.”

Jeremy chuckled. “It’s probably for the best. I think I should have stayed off the gin if we wanted this to go any further…” he wiggled his eyebrows at James.

“I really quite agree. We’re not as young as we used to be.”

“To be honest, I don’t think I could get it up after that much booze even when I was eighteen.”

James chuckled, trying not to wake up Richard. He needn’t have worried – by the sounds of things the tiny man was dead to the world for the foreseeable future. “I’m surprised. I thought  you’d be off ranting and raving about having to work with a band of poofs by now.”

“Yeah, so did I. Doesn’t sound quite as good when I have to say ‘I’m part of a band of sodding queers’ though, does it?”

“You could lie?”

“I’m not that awful.” Jeremy kissed the top of James’s head, and pulled him closer. “We should get some shut eye. This one’s going to be hard enough to deal with in the morning without us having the Irish flu.”

 

4.

“Jeremy. Oi. _Jeremy. Wake up, you moron._ ” Richard jabbed the taller man in the ribs, which had the desired effect of making him shuffle over, unconsciously trying to move away from whatever sly thing had come to bother him. The sly thing in question instantly took the opportunity to kick off his boots, and wriggle under the duvet and into the space that Jeremy had just vacated on the mattress.

That was what woke Jeremy up. With a deep, waking-up type sigh, he rolled over, and opened one eye to squint at Richard in the darkness. “Mmph. What?”

“I need to say here, okay?” Richard watched Jeremy’s face, knowing he should be too sleepy to put too much force into whatever argument he’d try to concoct.

“Y’can’t,” Jeremy mumbled, snuffling into the sea of blankets. “S’officer’s bed. Commoners not allowed.”

“Lovely, mate. Budge up.”

“Mmph.”

For a while Jeremy went quiet, and Richard assumed it would be safe to try and get some shut eye. Unfortunately, Jeremy was nothing if not persistent. “Why’re yer in m’bed? Where’s y’hammock?”

Richard sighed, and opened his eye to look up at the stars above them. “It fell down.”

Even half asleep, Jeremy’s laugh remained the stupid wheezy-donkey noise it all ways had been – at least since he’d been smoking like a bloody chimney. “You bloody pillock. Not sharing with May, then?”

 “I’d like to actually get some _sleep_ , is the issue.”

Jeremy chuckled, rolling onto his front, and throwing one arm out across Richard’s waist. “Whatever. Fine. But remember, my bed, my rules. I’m an _officer_.”

“Shut up you great gorilla. Get some sleep; we have to do actual manual labour in the morning.”

Jeremy didn’t reply, but simply chuckled again and tugged Richard closer. He went willingly, letting himself be manhandled into a position where Jeremy could spoon up behind him, tucking his chin over Richard’s shoulder, to kiss the patch of sensitive skin just below his ear.  Richard held on to the hand resting gently over his stomach and leaned back into the touch, letting Jeremy carry on down his bare shoulder, peppering his skin with sweet, stubble-scratch kisses.

Richard stared out, in to the night. He could see the outline of the lorries, and a left on torch in the crew’s camp, but aside from one very uppity insect, it was silent. “Jeremy?” He whispered.

“What?”

“Y’know this thing?”

“What thing?” Jeremy kissed his neck again.

“This thing. The one where we kiss and sleep next to each other and are nice, or whatever.”

“I’m aware of the thing. I was there for most of it.” Jeremy drew back a little, and Richard could feel his gaze on the back of his head. He carried on looking straight ahead.

“Is it going to, y’know. Carry on? Back home?” He felt Jeremy’s hand begin to retract from his waist, but he held on to it, still looking straight ahead.

Jeremy sighed, and pulled Richard close once again. He buried his nose in his hair. “Depends if Slow’s up for it. Can’t see why he wouldn’t be thought, the man’s already one Elton John album off being a friend of Dorothy as it is.”

Finally, Richard rolled over to look at him. “You total bloody hypocrite.” He meant it, but he still kissed Jeremy on the nose.

Jeremy laughed, and tucked Richard’s head down on his shoulder. “It’s my job, mate.”

 

5.

“Do you feel like this is becoming a routine?” James asked.

The three of them were lying side by side, finally in a real hotel bed, all in Jeremy’s room. Wrapped up in hotel bathrobes and each with fresh, damp hair, they passed a bottle of extremely questionably whisky between them.

Jeremy chuckled. “I think we’ve had worse routines over the years.”

“I liked the one where we all went to the wrap party in drag.” Said Hammond. He looked like he was about to fall asleep. They all did.

“You would.” Said Jeremy, and knocked back the rest of the whiskey. He slid town the bed, and rested his head on James’ stomach, wrapping one arm over his waist. “But you did look good in that dress.”

“Which one?”

“The blue one. With the silvery bits.”

“Oh, the galaxy one?”

“Yeah. It made your legs all…nice.”

James guffawed, jostling the other two. “Is that the best you can do? Nice?”

“Oi, I’m trying.”

“To be fair,” Hammond sat up, “In Jeremy terms, while not referring to a car or a pair of tits, I think that translates to ‘damn fine’.” He grinned, despite himself. “Thanks mate.”

Jeremy yawned. “Any time.”

James shifted, pulling Hammond closer in, while trying to make sure Jeremy stayed comfortable. He could feel the whisky moving around inside him, dulling his skin and gently beginning to turn off the switches in his brain, as it wound down for sleep. It had been a long day. Bridge finished. Final scenes taped. They’d taken the trucks to a local yard while the crew packed up, and finally, blissfully, been allowed to take a taxi to the airport hotel. The flight home was booked for the morning and all that had been left to do was take a shower and gravitate gently into Jeremy’s room, as if they’d been doing it for years. In a way they had, but never in the direction of a bed, and never without the intention of gravitating back out again.

Hammond leaned up, and nibbled the underside of James’ jaw. “I can hear you thinking.”

“No you can’t.”

“Can. You hum when you do deep thoughts.”

“I do bloody not.”

“Yes you do.” Said Jeremy, from somewhere next to James’ hip. “What was it this time?”

James decided not to push the humming thing; if they decided to gang up on him, there’d be no hearing the end of it. “Thinking about this, really. Should we tell people?”

“Umph, no.” Jeremy again. Hammond looked unhappy, but nodded.

James’ didn’t. “Why not?”

Jeremy sat up, watching James’ eyes. “Because, and as much as I hate to be the sensible one here chaps, it’s not a good idea. Not the sleeping together thing, that’s a good idea. But at the moment telling someone, anyone, is a bad idea. Because the press will hear, and it’ll be bad enough as it is. If, and I’m not suggesting it will, if it fizzles out within a week then it’ll be worse. Ah, fucking hell. We have to be sure first. It’ll be easier. Hmph.” He broke eye contact, signifying that was all the sensible they would be getting out of him.

Hammond nodded. “It’s a good point. I’m not happy about it, but yeah.”

James turned to look at him. “You want to tell people?”

“Not yet, no. Some day.” He kissed James, then Jeremy, in turn.

“We’re going to become gay pride poster boys, aren’t we?”

“Christ. Jeremy, does that mean Guardian readers will have to stop burning effigies of you?”

Jeremy laughed. A proper, belly, shaking his hand for no good reason laugh. “Fucking finally.”

James dipped his head down and kissed Jeremy, long and slow. He felt Hammond’s lips on his neck, and a hand twining together with his own. There was a hand on his hip, and he could feel Jeremy’s soft skin under his own palm. There was breathing, and sighing, and the sound of Hammond gently tugging Jeremy’s bathrobe open. Jeremy moved up, so he was marginally higher up than James. Even here and now, he had to be the tall one. James broke off the kiss to run his mouth over Hammond’s collar bone, which had shifted closer as the smaller man tried to climb back in between them, trying to touch and kiss, and feel everything at once.

More skin became exposed, and James could feel the whisky fizzing and popping in his blood, telling him to carry on, on, on. Jeremy’s hand was resting on his stomach, and Hammond had somehow ended up straddling one of James’ legs, ever the enthusiastic one.  He heard Jeremy giggle, and opened his eyes. “What?”

“Hammond’s pants.”  Jeremy said, by way of explanation. James looked down. He understood why Jeremy had laughed; Hammond’s boxers had cartoon racing cars printed on them. Aside from that, there was the bulge. James thought he should probably apply more words to that thought, but nope. Bulge would have to do.

“Oi, quit staring.” Hammond bucked his hips against James in an attempt to make a point, but it was rather ruined by his shaky intake of breath, and his head falling back.

James chuckled under his breath, and moved a hand down to cover the outline of Hammond’s cock. Hammond sucked in air, thrusting again, gently into James’ firm hand. Jeremy sat up, and leant over to leave bite marks scattered around and across Hammond’s chest, while one hand dropped down to fumble at the hem of James’ boxers.

More shuffling, more clothes being removed. Lube and condoms appeared from somewhere, because Jeremy, amazingly, was a good boy scout and _always_ came prepared. James looked up at Hammond straddling his waist in the lamp light. Naked, apart from his white robe open and falling down his shoulders, with Jeremy behind him, holding on to his waist and rocking up into his warm body. Every push of Jeremy’s hips caused Hammond to rock forward, and for his long, hard cock to rub against James’. There was no point trying to draw it out; none of them were going to last, and they were all tired. It was gentle but urgent; sweaty bodies pushing and pulling against each other, a gasp and a shout, and sudden stillness.

They collapsed in a heap, James groping for tissues to clear them up, trading off kisses with his two partners. Hammond finally threw his bathrobe onto the floor, and curled up between them, yawning wide. The windows were open, and the pale, gauzy curtains drifted in the yellow light from a street lamp. The sky was just visible between them. Dark, but there were no clouds. Just thousands of silver stars.

Later, Jeremy would insist they were all turning camp, and end up trying to film a show in a bright pink shirt and a cowboy hat, just after they were unexpectedly outed  by a dickhead with a telephoto lens. The Guardian readers would stop trying to destroy Jeremy; The Mail would call for his head, and he’d find a surprising ally in The Observer (AND he would make the Pink List). Hammond would try to take them riding again, on sensible horses, and when it wouldn’t work, he’d try rock climbing, and then canoeing, and once, caving. In the end he would leave Jeremy and James alone, and they would sit and laugh as he came up with his own adrenaline rushes. Later, James would sit in the nice chair in his kitchen, and watch Jeremy try to carry Hammond away from the stove because _no you can’t cook the best you can do is order curry you don’t even know the difference between escallops and escargot_ and he would realise that yeah, he was in love. And that was fine.


End file.
